


An Archive of Arrows

by orphan_account



Category: Archive 81 (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Archive 81 ep 01, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, WtNV ep 33
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:58:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What happens when a certain dangerous archive of cassettes find their way to a similarly-dangerous desert town? Not what you're expecting, that's what.





	An Archive of Arrows

    “Hello, listeners,” Cecil Palmer said as his introductory music faded. “I’ll get to the news in a moment, but first: I was digging through some of the stored-up belongings in my closet and I found a box of old cassettes. Now, I do not remember making these myself, and they are all marked with ‘Archive 81’ in thick, black permanent marker — wonder what that’s all about. I have never heard of Archive 81 before, but it sure sounds interesting. I plan on playing these tapes on air over the next few weeks. Maybe we can make sense of them together. I’ll get to the first tape in a moment but first, the news.”  
  
    Cecil went about the news in his usual way, if a bit more briskly than usual. Nothing too terribly interesting, in his opinion. The Museum of Forbidden Technologies was opening a new exhibit; the exhibit would be locked from the public, as is customary for all exhibits in the Museum of Forbidden Technologies. Moving along, traffic took a bit longer than Cecil would’ve liked, but when _isn’t_ traffic backed up these days? There was a reason he preferred to walk, after all.  
  
    “All right, now that that’s over, let’s get to the first tape — or, at least, what I’m going to _assume_ is the first tape. You see — er, this is a broadcast, so I guess you _don’t_ see — _ugh_ , let me try that again.” Cecil cleared his throat and started his sentence over. “These tapes — the ones with ‘Archive 81’ written on them? Yeah, those. They do not have any other identifying marks on them. They look just like any old ordinary cassette tape —  about the size of an iPhone, black with a white label stuck on the face I’m assuming is side A. They are a bit dusty, but I doubt that could hinder my playing them. Uh, there is not really much else to say about the tapes, so I suppose I will just let them speak for themselves.”  
  
    Cecil blew the dust off of the first cassette and inserted it into his player. At first, nothing happened. Then the player crackled to life, a staticky voice issuing from its speakers.  
  
     _“…Sure, totally. I, Daniel Powell, a temporary archivist for the Housing Historical Committee of New York State, give complete verbal consent to be recorded.”_  
  
    Another voice, audibly implying more age than the first, cut in. _“Great job. Now it’s all legally binding. Good stuff. And, uh, just a quick reminder: We do require that you record everything. Really important.”_   
  
    The tape cut out, film squealing over its reels. “Uh, I guess that’s it for this side? I have to do some news now or Station Management will devour my eternal soul — or something to that measure, I couldn’t really tell through all the angry growling. I’ll play the next side after a word from our sponsors.”  
  
    The word wasn’t much — lengthy, full of strange propaganda for the moon, but _everyone_ knows the moon is a conspiracy anyways, so again: not much. Next was the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner — something or other about cardinals. Then, a message from StrexCorp involving thinking deeply about meadows — who comes up with those adverts, anyway?  
  
    “Finally,” Cecil began, the word leaving him more like a sigh of relief, “we can get back to the tape. I know it didn’t sound very interesting at first, but as the old adage goes, ‘Do not judge a book by its cover. Each book is as dangerous as the next; all books are dangerous, and reading will only result in death and serious consequences.’ Or, at least, that’s what my grandmother once told me. Enough of me, though, let’s get back to that tape!”  
  
    Cecil flipped the tape, put it back in the player, and pressed play. The first voice — Daniel, as the man had introduced himself — issued once more through the speakers.  
  
     _“Understood. Don’t alter the tapes.”_  
  
    The older man from the first side, as yet unnamed, replied, _“Exactly, Dan. Make a log and description of anything of note, digitize, all that good stuff. Put them in chronological order and remember: Record everything. Really important.”_  
  
     _“Sounds great! I’ve got it.”_ The tape squealed as if rewinding itself, then resumed with Dan’s voice. _“All right, well, let’s see what these tapes are all about. Okay… goes here… augh, stupid reels. All right… here we go.”_  
  
    The tape Daniel was working with played with another, more distant (or was that just the fact that this was a recorded recording?), squeal, and a young woman’s voice now dominated the audio.  
  
     _“…Melody Pendras, February 17th, 1994, 16:32. South exterior of the Visser building. This is an introductory survey of the Visser Towers residential block, as supervised by the Urban Preservation and Development Department of New York State.”_  
  
    “New York…?” Cecil muttered curiously as the tape skipped forward again. “Never heard of it.”  
  
    The only response afforded him was the tape resuming. Melody’s voice still held centre-stage, though it seemed not to be from the same recording as before.  
  
     _“…We weren’t really able to talk the last time I saw you.”_  
  
    A new voice, this one sounding young and flighty, responded, _“You’re - you’re Melody Pendras?”_  
  
 _“Jacob, right? You know about me?”_  
  
 _“You’re recording this, right?”_  
  
 _“Yes, but if that makes you uncomfortable, I can stop.”_  
  
    Jacob’s panic-laden response sounded from afar. _“No, no! Keep recording. Samuel said it was important that you keep recording.”_  
  
    The tape skipped again, but resumed seconds later, with little conversation lost. It picked up with Melody, who sounded as if she’d already had more than enough of interviewing Jacob.  
  
     _“If you’re going to act like this, I’m just going to leave.”_  
  
 _“No, no, no!”_ Jacob iterated frantically. _“I- I’ll be nice, I promise! Please stay. Samuel told me to give you a message.”_  
  
 _“What did Samuel say?”_  
  
 _“Samuel told me to- to tell you that ‘it is not yet time for you to understand the work we are undertaking. It will be eventually, but not yet. Cycles upon cycles, stories upon stories, Melody. Until then, refrain from troubling the members of my society. You are disturbing them.’ That- that’s what he s…”_  
  
    Jacob’s voice fizzled into static, followed by a loud squeal as the tapes film began to unwind, tangling into an unfixable mess as it forced itself out of the player. Cecil cursed and attempted to at least stuff some of the film back on its reel. Frustrated, he gave up and tossed the cassette on his desk.  
  
    “Well, listeners,” he began with a huff. “That tape’s trashed, so I guess there’s no making sense of it past what you heard today. Though, frankly, I have no idea what any of it means. I would appreciate it if, in the case one of you _does_ know something about this tape, you could give us a call or send us a letter down here at the station. I will play another tape on my next show, and continue until there are no more, I suppose. But for now, I shall take you to [the weather](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007CFPZOC/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B007CFPZOC&linkCode=as2&tag=kenshea-20)."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
    “Listeners, you will not _believe_ what happened while the weather was playing,” Cecil announces as soon as the weather ends. “ _Steve Carlsberg_ called me about the tape! He _called_ me. He _knows_ I have a rule that he’s not allowed to call me! Even worse, he told me — no, he _begged_ me not to keep playing the tapes!”  
  
    Cecil groaned in annoyance and continued, “Of course, I was all, ‘What’s it to _you_ , Steve,” and then he was all, “Just— Please don’t play any more tapes!” and I was all, “I do what I want, _Steve Carlsberg_ ,” and he was all— Well, I don’t know what he said next because while he was trying to respond, I hung up on him.” Cecil’s smugness in the last statement was as audible as his words.  
  
    “Ugh, anyway, stay tuned next for… whatever happens next in your life. Good night, Night Vale. Goodnight.”


End file.
